The Survival Games
by PastTheBedrock
Summary: You're a member of the Yogscast. You're living in the worlds of Minecraftia. You're peaceful and happy where you are. That is, until you received the dreaded letter. One-shot.


**Hi, it's PastTheBedrock. :)**

**This is my first story uploaded to this website, hope it's fine. :)**

**Note that it's Yogscast related. **

* * *

You were relaxing. Or perhaps, you were working hard, eyes sharp with concentration. Other than those two mentioned, you could not think of what else you could do. It was always either work or relaxation, nothing more. As to where you were, you knew it very well, a little too well, as well as you knew the back of your hand.

Perhaps, it was a looming castle, with machines whirring and screeching inside, with bubble-like layers of translucent force fields wrapping around the compounds of the castle.

Perhaps, it was on the floor below the rooftop of a giant factory, the scent of mouth-watering, spongy, filled with orange jelly, chocolaty snack and strawberry topped, vanilla covered, chocolate sponged, creamy cakes wafting all around you.

Perhaps, it was a farm, built by your own hand, pens filled with cheerful animals, trees standing tall and proud for miles around your farmhouse and your golden fields of wheat and your sugarcane farm, with its sand sodden by water to no end.

Perhaps, it was a huge compound, empty and deserted, rid of any noises from machinery or people, yet had a complex electricity system and the factory that had once produced top-quality merchandise.

Perhaps, it was a small shack-like house, made of poorly placed wood - one which your teacher, mentor, and saviour had shook his head at and graded with a poor grade - and a small farm with muddy brown slop sitting next to it, the seeds recently sown in.

Mail came around rarely, but when it did, you dreaded opening the envelope, especially when it was made of top-quality paper, hard, stiff and like cardboard, and when the words on it were written cursively and beautifully, and when it was stated clearly on the envelope that it was an invitation. An invitation was never good, not in these lands.

You may have been sitting back in a luxurious poolside seat or laying down in your admittedly slightly childish race car bed or slouched in front of a workbench, carving intricate designs into a piece of mahogany wood reassembling a door. But as soon as you an envelope popped out in front of you and landed on your lap, you drop anything you were holding, sit up straight and position your hands around the edges of the envelope, ready to tear it open, then hesitate before ripping it open.

You saw words scrawled out with a feather dipped directly into the ink sac of a recently deceased squid (hence the slightly reddish tint in the ink). Squinting, you make out words inviting you to a contest, a competition of sorts. Could it be...? You hold your breath, hoping with every single second that passed that it was not another round of the dreaded games.

As soon as your eyes had landed on the words 'The Survival Games', your mind raced to comprehend what this meant with much ease. Survival Games. Death. Your heart was pounding fast, and your head was throbbing too hard for your brain to come up of any words other than death, pain, and sorrow. Long forgotten scars seemed to resurface, aching again, making you let out a screech of pain. You clutch your head, trying to rid yourself of the pain, but to no avail.

The scars on your body from the previous games had long disappeared, but the marks scored across your mind had begun to hurt again. You had tried, after the last games, to ease yourself of that pain, and you succeeded after a few months. But now, the memories were back, and you wished that it wouldn't. The Survival Games... you might have won before. Or had you always been the first to go down? Never mind that, you were sure you had won in other similar games, and those memories were hard to remove.

You may have been champion of the Survival Games before, and was rewarded with thousands over thousands of sparkling jewels and riches, but at a price - you had been forced to murder your closest friend in cold blood. What for? To win the Survival Games? That was the only excuse you had when your friend confronted you after the games, and obviously that excuse had made you seem like a selfish person with no care for others.

Or, perhaps, you had never won in those games, but survived long enough within the glass domes that were the arenas to remember how savage you became, how you killed allies and friends alike just for whatever small thing that could be deemed as useful - even if just a tiny bit. The nagging at the back of your brain would keep reminding you of how much of a monster you had become, slaughtering people whom you had considered as friends simply to feed your lust for survival. You never felt guilty while doing so, but when the games were over, you felt shame crashing down over you in massive waves.

Or, maybe, you were terrible at these games and usually died before the wild survival instincts developed in you. You had always been terrified, peering over your shoulders every second, and when you were cornered by a supposed friend, you could do nothing but stare into those unfriendly, once familiar eyes before your life was ended just so that your supposed friend could take extra food along that he probably would not eat.

But all the same, when you received that mail, you were absolutely petrified, dismayed and frightened to no end. You only had ten seconds for horrible memories - or horrible tales - to rush back to you before you disappeared and reappeared in a glass tube, with a chest next to you, out of your reach and a cake up on top of your glass tube to fill you up before the games began. Then there was always the unnecessary welcome to the arena and the introduction of the game host himself. You had always wondered why he did that, for he had been holding these games for as long as you could remember and he always picked out those people who had already played in those games and put them in the same arena as the people who were in the same arena as you were in the last time.

You would be given an hour to talk to your chosen partner. That one hour was never enough time.

Then, a countdown on a gigantic white board would begin, and blinding lights positioned in spots on the white board would flash, making out the digits 3, 2 and 1 one by one. Then you were pushed upwards, and from there onwards all choices made were made by you, and only you.

Then the chase would be on.

Trained fingers clasped around the latch of heavy wooden chests. Quick hands pulled out its contents and slapped on armour hastily. Shaking fists were equipped with swords. Even the most useless of items found in the chests were put to use. You recalled seeing - or perhaps, it was you who did it - people shove dirt down another's throat, leaving him to choke and splutter.

Skilful jumps and agile twists and turns were a necessarily to scale the tall buildings. Well-hidden traps and deadly silence were required to corner others. Fighting skills were put to the test. You savoured the taste of victory, and loved the sounds of explosions that were produced whenever a contestant has died - only for a moment, before you recoil in horror at what you had become.

When night fell, you froze, numb to any sensations. Everything stops. Even that arrow heading for you freeze. You look up. There's a tree above you and you can't see the sky. The tree disappears. You look around. All the buildings and structures had disappeared, leaving only the ground, which had now turned to nothing but cobbled stone. You look around. The other contestants were nowhere to be seen. When you looked down, you saw empty space where your feet would have been. Everyone is invisible for this moment. When you looked up, the fallen for the day were projected on the sky.

Your friend had fallen, and his - or her - moments before death replayed on the scene, with full sound. Your friend's horrified scream will remain etched in your memory forever. You tried to comfort yourself, knowing that your friend would now be out of the contest and be in their beds of where they last slept, overlooking the rest of the competition in the form of a dream. At least, your friend was safe now. But they'll never be able to wake up until the competition is over, and will be forced to watch friend turn on friend.

When it was over, you noticed that the tree that had once blocked your view from sight was back there, and you immediately leaned to the side, dodging the arrow. You were being hunted. You have to run.

So you ran, ran to the side of the arena, and drew a fist. You had to break out of this arena. Then you stopped. What are you thinking? You'll never be able to get home this way as this arena was built in the midst of the game host's home. And his home was huge. It stretched for miles apart, and thousands of feet below. You were certain you would never find your way out.

At least you had shaken off your attacker.

This went on for days and days on end, until at last the final few remained. Perhaps, by then, you were dead, killed by on whom you had thought as your friend, forced to watch the rest of the competition in your dreams. Or maybe you were still alive, wishing with all your might that you and your companion would not be the last two remaining.

Then the games were over. The host of the games, dressed in that too familiar golden brown coat with buttery edges and patterns, with the tailcoats wrapping comfortably around his smoky grey pants, descended from the skies and launched into a congratulatory speech. You gazed back up at the host, tired eyes reflecting slight exhaustion and wonder at what the prize would be.

And then he would raise his diamond sword, glittering and glistening in the golden sun's rays dipping down the glass dome, and grin manically. Your eyes widened, and you turned to run.

You were never fast enough.


End file.
